Straight and Narrow
by Lena Carr
Summary: Rick looked around, looked at the angle of the sun, and then back at Carol. She shrugged. "Check the place out," he said. "See what we can salvage. I'm on the fence. The rest of you, you know what needs doing." It was only in Rick's mind, of course, that things sorted out so tidy. (Ensemble, Daryl/Carol, Season 5. 15,000 words total. Posting in 4 parts) COMPLETE.
1. On the Road

**A/N at the end. Part 1/4**

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><p>Eugene - of all people - found the campsite for them. Which greatly increased Eugene's credibility with the group, likely increased his expected lifespan by several months, and took a great deal of pressure off Carol, who had been, at that point, the last person reliably <em>neutral<em> towards Eugene, and feeling herself slip, hourly, towards the _homicidal_ perspective shared by much of the rest of the group.

They were strung out on the firebreak; Glenn and Michonne on point, Abraham and Sasha taking trail, with Rick and Rosita moving up and down the line and occasionally pushing out on the edges to check over ridgetops. Carol was content enough to take her turn riding in the easy chair, as Abraham put it – hiking in the slightly thicker middle of the group, walking beside Carl and just behind Maggie, Noah limping behind. No snakes, no walkers, just put one foot down in front of the next and wave back at Judith as she gurgled. The sun had long since burnt off the morning chill, leaving everyone grateful for the intermittent shade of a longleaf pine, and struggling through sugar sand wallows in the dips. All of them had switched on and off of traveling watch – even Father Gabe was taking a turn. Rick was never really off watch, and neither was Daryl, except when he was out hunting. But for everyone one else, there was this time to be in the center, relatively protected, when you could let your mind shut down, let the wind and rustle of leaves slip over you, and just walk.

As they had come to learn, though, Eugene never ever stopped thinking. When he stopped walking, Maggie almost walked straight into his backpack.

"Ooof," she said, and then, uncharitably, "What is with you? Move your fat ass, Eugene, quit hogging the road."

And of course Eugene stepped to his right just as Maggie tried to pass him on the same side. She bounced off his backpack again, and this time came right back with a stiff-arm and "Jesus!"

Now half the group had stopped, and Glenn was already turning around, coming back to see to Maggie. Carol sighed, shook her head and pointed at Glenn – _no_.

Beth had been in the ground for thirteen days. Maggie had spent three of them weeping, two raging at Eugene for drawing them away with lies about DC and a cure, and eight in brittle, _seething_ fury at the entire world.

At some point, Maggie was going to have to stop blaming Eugene for her sister's death. Today wasn't that day, obviously. But that didn't Maggie got leave to call down every walker in the woods on the group.

Before Carol had a chance to step around Carl – or before Eugene managed to knock down Maggie with his backpack as he turned left, then right, then left again – Eugene stopped dead center of the road, knelt and pointed one finger at the woods, and announced, "Am I the only one who noted that structure? Why have we not searched that one?"

"What? Quit making shit up, Eugene," Maggie snapped. "You're not getting another rest break." She stiff-armed him again. "Keep moving." Eugene wavered, one hand sinking in the sand as he struggled to stay upright.

Carol got a hand on Maggie's arm before the younger woman could shove at Eugene again. "Maggie, wait, " Carol said, with more patience than she felt. "Eugene, what structure?"

"That one." Eugene's arm was shaking, but insistent. "With the mailbox, and the fence, and the driveway."

And the damnedest thing was, he was right.

The Onoconee National Forest was a mass of reclaimed marginal farming land, damaged by erosion, bought up by the state, and allowed to return to woodland. In a previous life, when Ed had gotten them far enough ahead on bills that he could consider taking a week's vacation, Carol had carefully gone through all the options for a low cost holiday – she imagined nights around a campfire, cooking smores with Sophia, birdsong at dawn, long afternoon walks under the trees. She'd even planned for sunscreen and tick repellent. There would be other families there – Ed could talk with the husbands, she'd chat with the wives. Under the eyes of strangers, and with limited access to alcohol, Ed would be on his best behavior.

Then the clutch had gone out on the Cherokee, Ed sold his vacation days for cash, and after the vehicle had finally been fixed, he'd taken them to Six Flags as a sort-of-apology. Four hours of screeching music, jostling strangers, Sophia crying because she couldn't go on the wooden rollercoaster, then puking up all the cotton candy she'd eaten, before Ed realized there was not a beer to be had in the entire theme park and forced them to leave.

She'd kept the folder of national parks and lakeside campgrounds in a drawer for years. Somehow, at the end of the world, it had made its way into the Cherokee. That first winter, they'd read the words off every scrap of paper that came to them.

The Onoconee Forest brochure had described the refuge as a patchwork affair, made of whatever land could be bought or begged or foreclosed upon, with bits and drabs of hold-out sections and homesteads and quarter acres dotting the landscape. Even before the end of the world, the miles of public forest had been broken by privately owned fields, farms, and homes. The group had passed a few, on the way north- burnt out hunting camps and vacation homes, empty-eyed houses long since looted of anything useful.

It was a lesson they'd learned the hard way, that first winter – close to the cities and towns, the walkers were thick and dangerous, but the threat had kept away competing scavengers. Further out, other survivors had already stripped the leftovers from any homes so that now they were simply empty buildings – no resources, no walkers, no hope, no threat. The only way to survive was to run along the edges, like the muskrat in the Jungle Book tales.

But as Daryl had said more than once, _every once in a while, even a blind squirrel could find a nut._ Like now.

"Slap me in the face with a donkey's dick and call me weasel, I would never have seen that," Abraham said, staring at the brush-covered fenceline. At his feet, a finger-nail's width of red peeked from a blanket of leaves: the red metal flag of a rural route mailbox, post shattered and laying flat on the ground. The name on the box read _Seville_ in block letters. "Course, I never got a chance to, before the nerd king sang out like a canary."

"Daryl would have seen it," Glenn said, who had missed it, and used appeal to absent authority to salve over his wounded pride. "I hope whatever the hell he's chasing tastes really, really good."

Leaves lay thick over the narrow turn off from the firebreak, obscuring the rain-carved ruts that would have marked the passageway during the summer. The thick water oak standing sentry by the gate had let one long, wisteria-draped arm lay down before the rust-red gate, crushing the mailbox and obscuring the driveway, the gate, and the faded yellow NO TRESSPASSING PRIVATE PROPERTY sign still clinging by a brittle ziptie to a crossbar. Even deep-autumn dry, the wisteria vines were entangled enough that shifting the thick end of the down branch was impossible. (It would not have mattered – the gate was closed at that end with a tumbler lock the size of Carol's fist.) They settled for hacking off some of the smaller branches at the far side while Abraham and Tyreese boosted Glenn and Noah over the fence. Between breaking off branches, prying at the gate hinges, and jerking the gate back and forth until it finally shifted with a long complaining groan, they forced a path around the branch and through the gate.

Three hundred feet up a gentle slope, the path hit another gate, this one secured with a nail-hooked chain. Beyond it, a cedar-sided house sat tucked up tidily – a world away from the towering sprawl of the Greene farm house they had left two years before. A faded blue Suburban sat before a second building – a shed-slash-workshop, two roll-down garage doors completely open and a thick drift of leaves leading inside the dark interior. Beyond the workshop, a rusted metal shed listed under a dry tangle of scarlet-leaved Virginia creeper like a sailor staggering home from the port-side bars.

Rick slowly led the way through the frost-burnt grass, leaves crunching underfoot. Broomsage stood scattered across the yard, with darker ragweed husks and fluff-topped goldenrod here and there, dragged down by bright green catbriar.

Rick signaled two fingers at the outbuildings, pointing Glenn one direction, Abraham the other. "No sneaking, don't get shot by accident," he said quietly. Abraham nodded and jerked his head at Rosita, who fell in beside him as they cautiously trudged around the back.

In front of the house, Rick shifted his rifle so the muzzle pointed down and called out, "Hello the house!" A pair of bobwhites took off from under Glenn's feet, making him jump and curse.

The sound echoed around the yard.

Nothing else moved.

Rick checked left and right again, pulled the rifle into his shoulder and made his way up to the porch, feet carefully under him and Michonne an arm's length away. A wooden sign hung on the door – _Born to Hunt, Forced to Work._ Rick called out again and then lifted a fist to beat on the door. A dove burst out of a gap beneath the porch roof, startling Michonne into a flurry of profanity.

Out in the yard, Carol kept her head turning left to right and back again, focusing on keeping her muzzle off any of the group and the porch in the corner of her eye.

"Still nothing," Rick said.

In the space where Daryl would have snarled, no shit, Sherlock, silence carried on. Rick reached out, tried the door.

It opened under his hand. "You've got to be shitting me," Michonne breathed. Rick shrugged, let the door go, and then put his shoulder to it, when it stuck after two inches. Carol saw him ease inside, then flicked her eyes back to Noah, nodded the young man back to the left. Noah swallowed, nodded, shifted closer to the porch.

And then shrieked as something shifted and twisted, shattering underfoot with a crunch that carried aross the yard.

He jerked back, falling, scrambling backwards and struggling to bring his borrowed rifle back to bear. Beside him, Tara had her shotgun up and pointing at the grass. Michonne's feet were pounding across the porch, dragging Rick back out the door, as Abraham thundered around the corner with Rosita at his heels.

"Stay!" Maggie snapped, holding a hand to Tyreese and Carl. "Wait!" Tara freed a hand from her weapon and helped Noah get to his feet, pulling him back away from whatever it was. There were five weapons trained on it, and then four, when Michonne whipped around, sword in one hand and the other at the small of Rick's back, shifting together, nearly joined at the hip, Michonne's eyes locked on the still-open door and Rick's rifle aimed at whatever it was in the grass.

Eventually, after a great deal of siding up to it side-ways, and Glenn leaping at the head and beating it in with the butt of his rifle, it turned out to be a cane-bottomed rocking chair and the owner of the homestead – a seventy-year old man, by the Georgia State driver's license in his wallet and known to the world as Antonio Seville.

Michonne stood over the skin-bound skeletal remains of the body, poking at it with the end of her sword. "He just _died_. Didn't turn, wasn't eaten, just fell off the porch and _died_."

"Christ save me," Abraham said, "from a world where a seventy-"

"Sixty-eight," said Rosita, because her mission in life was to take no shit from Abraham, and give him grief at every opening.

"_Whatever_ – where an old man can drop dead of a heart attack, or whatever, and this be a _complete and utter fucking mystery_ to whoever should come across him." He looked at the keys in his hand, tossed them up and caught them. "Sucks for him. Might be the break we need." He tilted his head towards Rick. "What you think there, officer?"

Rick looked around, looked at the angle of the sun, and then back at Carol. She shrugged. Rick looked at Michonne – a fast, eye-blink-and-it-was-gone-nod – and then at Glenn. "Check the place out. See what we can salvage. Find me a reason to _not_ spend the night. Check the fence. Check the tanks, see if there's water. If the fence is good, and the water's good, we'll spend the night, at least."

Michonne straightened, sheathed her sword. "And Daryl?" she said, looking at Carol, not Rick, and now the tension that had set its teeth all along Carol's spine had a voice.

Abraham snorted. "If that man can't sort out the mess we left down on the firebreak and make his own way up here, I'll eat Father Gabe's hat without ketchup."

Rick ducked his head and laughed. "Sasha, why don't you go down the hill a bit, keep a look-out for our lost lamb?" He looked at the sky again. "The rest of you, you know what needs doing."

It was only in Rick's mind, of course, that things sortied themselves out so tidy.

Sasha went back down the trail, of course, but she had to get her whistle back from Tyreese first, and collect a full water bottle, and another handful of toilet paper, and an extra blanket, because the wind was picking up.

The perimeter needed to be checked, the yard had to be investigated more closely, all the buildings at least cursorily surveyed, and a fire built so that water could be boiled to fill the empty canteens – all more or less at once. Carol divided tasks as fast as she got volunteers, had Carl put Judith down on the porch in a patch of sunshine, and then sent the boy as runner from one group to the next.

"You," Rick said, coming back out of the house after he and Michonne cleared both floors to find Carol standing with her arms folded, watching the group enthusiastically jump at the work before them. "You are a marvel."

"You don't see the lists in my head. I'm tempted to back out and say get back on the road, where at least we know the routine. This is too much like work."

"I thought you liked space." Rick picked up Judith. "Or is that just limited to particular space, these days? Shared with a particular person?" She gave him a look. Rick bounced Judith on his hip and grinned. "I know what it is – you want everyone out of your hair so you can do laundry."

Carol sighed, "Fat chance of that happening." Slough-rinsed underwear had been the standard, that first winter, and now it looked like they would be back to the same options.

Then Noah came bouncing over, saying that three of the four thousand-liter water tanks were completely full, but more importantly would someone help him with _the __big door in the ground_ he'd just found, it was a root cellar, it had to be, Michonne called from inside the house for someone to check the chimney for bird nests or other issues, Abraham announced that the Suburban appeared to be full of shelf-stable food, Tyreese came from the shed-slash-workshop with a hefty mattock over his shoulder, and Glenn reported that he had found a roll of barbed wire next to the metal shed and three places where deadfalls were leaning against the yard fence – oh, and there was another gate in the back, that led to a road that led God-knew-where.

Rick sighed and passed Judith back to Carol. "I'll get the fence. And check beyond the gate."

He stepped off the porch into the grass, leaving Carol to holler after him, "Take Michonne!"

"What?" Michonne stuck her head out of the door, frowning after Rick as he trotted across the yard after Glenn. In the driveway, Abraham was pacing around the Suburban, frowning at the tires as Rosita pulled boxes out of the cargo area in the back. Michonne leaned further out. "Where's he off to now?"

"Fenceline. Will you go with him? I think Abraham is about to dive under that car and not come out until dark."

"On it." Michonne leaned back inside to snatch up her sword and followed Rick. "Someone else needs to manage food."

Maggie came around the corner, a box of canned goods in her arms. "I'm on food. Carol, Tara said she found some things in the shed, wants you to take a look."

Carol leaned back her head to judge the angle of the sun. _Noon, or a little after_. Daryl had split off midway through the morning, gone hunting. _Be safe_, she thought after him. _I want to show you all these things._

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><p><strong>AN:** Daryl/Carol, with some Rick/Michonne, Glenn/Maggie. Team Group. Set after S508, on the road. From a prompt by TheReader'sMuse on tumblr: _All that raspy, stubble-strewn skin all under Carol's little hands as the blade shivers down the span of his throat. The smell of lathering soap and something that was distinctly her, rising as he tightens in his jeans. Holding back an aroused little shiver as she leans down to get to that…hard to reach little curve… _- so this is entirely Not My Fault. Thanks to FS for beta.


	2. Rummage

**A/N at the end.**

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><p>Daryl let himself just walk for an hour, soaking in the sounds of the woods as the quiet rustle of the group's passage faded into the distance. He kept his head up, his eyes moving and the bow loose in his grip, but it was more to catch something if it jumped up, than looking for something in case it was there.<p>

It wasn't a burden, walking guard, taking watch, or hunting. Well, taking watch could be, depending on who Daryl was sharing the time with. But having to spend time walking in the woods was the least of the problems the end of the world had wrought for him. Walking alone? That was hot gravy on top.

Mostly. He turned his head, looking behind him for a flash of silver-grey hair through the trees, above the mottled blue scarf he'd found for her a week back. After they'd buried Beth, he'd about left his head and hope in the dirt with the girl. Carol had pulled him out, step by step, breath by breath, and when he'd come back to himself, it was to find Carol there, like she should always be.

He'd draped the scarf around her neck, winding it careful, as if he could keep her bound to him by such fragile stuff as yarn and cloth. She'd smiled back, hearing what he had to say even when he couldn t find the words. _I'm still here._

Now he was more than a mile off the firebreak they d been following, and she was with the group, and he had stuff to do, not just sky-lark across the woods. Daryl shook himself and started looking.

And of course, down the next slope, there was a damp spot in the bottom of the hollow, black mud and a few cattails, and the heart-shaped marks of multiple deer. Daryl grinned, picked the set that was heading roughly towards the firebreak, and followed.

_Easy-peasy_, he thought, half an hour later as he knelt beside a sumac bush. The doe had led him half the way back to the firebreak - wasn't every man who could convince a wild thing to walk one way, instead another, or just spook off for the next county. He was going to be smug about that, even if there wasn't a soul who'd ever see it.

She was a good size, too this year's fawn, round enough in the rump for good eating, but not so much that the meat would spoil. Everything was struggling to live now, in the winters after the end of the world, and it made no sense to let any sort of thing be wasted. Less of a concern now with the weather turning cold, and not like Daryl hadn't had occasion before to hack a shoulder free of a fresh kill and run like hell, leaving the rest to walkers.

Still, a doe a young buck would be better. _And people in hell want slurpees._

The doe stopped to piss, halfway up the next slope, her forequarters hidden behind a low clump of laurel, big ears going left-right-left. Daryl kept his breathing steady. _Give her a minute... _

The doe took one step forward, then another, almost clear of the brush before the nine-pointer bolted over the crest of the ridge, tail high and bright and legs moving like something out of a dream. The doe took one look at the big boy, another at the walker shambling after it and then took off south like she d left her purse in Valdosta.

The buck traveled down the length of the slope in two long bounds, skidded to a stop on top of the place where the doe had just been. Never no mind the dead thing staggering down the hill after it, he still had the gall to drop his head and sniff the leaves the doe'd just pissed on while Daryl put the arrow he'd been saving for venison between the walker's eyes.

The walker collapsed in a heap of dingy forester uniform even still had the hat, of all things and the buck looked up, nose working, eyes searching the woods.

_"Shit"_, Daryl breathed, and jerked another bolt free. The buck snorted, looked straight at Daryl, and made as if to follow the doe. O_h, no_ -

- the buck's hindquarters bunched, _damn, you're a monster_, damn tree, never going to get a good angle on his shoulders -

- _you don't_, Daryl thought, and pulled the trigger. The bolt flew straight and true, whistled past the laurel branches, and smacked deep into the buck's right side, at the furthest edge of the ribs, angled high and straight into the liver.

The buck came down on the other end of the leap and stumbled before regaining his feet and taking off, tail flashing white.

Heading straight away from the firebreak.

Daryl cursed, slung the crossbow and lit out after him.

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><p>Tara had snagged the dead man's keys from Abraham long enough to open the padlock securing the workshop's inner doors. Stacks of boxes filled this building just as they did the house, obscuring the windows on two sides, but a few minutes work had been enough to get one window clear enough to open the shutters and let in light.<p>

Tara took a long look around the workshop, wandering around the edges and poking at interesting things, before her eyes fell on the junk stacked in one corner. She blinked, feeling her face stretch in a grin. _Oh, Carol's gonna freak._ She pulled off a stack of blankets and an overstuffed cardboard box labelled as - but not containing Miller Highlife -and took a closer look just to be sure before galloping out to go fetch Carol.

"-and there's a potbellied stove I mean, it s got all kinds of junk stacked on it, but it looks good, but that s not all, you have to see this. Is this what I think it is?"

Tara had Carol by the sleeve and was gushing at top speed, dragging Carol deep into the workshed. She stopped before a tall-legged metal basin, yellow paint chipped and peeling. "Is it? Is this one of those washing tubs?"

Carol crouched down, peering under the tub. "I think it is - help me pull it out."

Together they got the tub legs untangled from the power cord of a neighboring table saw and halfway out of the corner before one side wedged against the wall. "Here, I got it," Tara said, and reached around the saw platform to get a grip on the laundry tub. Two full body heaves and the table saw shifted, the laundry tub came free, and the metal tubs stacked on the topmost shelf shivered, teetered, and then leapt for the floor, cascading down on the table saw, assorted cardboard boxes, and the stack of blankets.

Both women dodged back, Tara tripping and hitting the concrete floor hard. She ended half under the laundry machine with her arms wrapt over her neck. When the shower of tubs stopped clattering to the floor, she cautiously looked up. Around her, pots and tubs lay scattered, rocking on their sides. The largest one a cast iron legged monster that could have held Carl with room to spare, sat upended on the table saw, the blade mechanism crushed beneath it. "Oops?"

Carol put out a hand and touched the closest pot, stilling it. With the other, she pointed at the shelf, and the last tub, still wedged against the ceiling. "Tara, you are a genius. Can you get that one?"

They hauled them all out into the yard - the double-basined laundry machine, a huge rust-colored iron pot, a pair of fifteen gallon round laundry tubs, and - marvel of marvels - an enameled hip bath.

"We're lucky this didn't hit the concrete," Carol said, walking backwards with one end of the bath. "Would have chipped, maybe even cracked."

Tara grinned. "I'm just glad the big pot didn t chip my head." They set the bath down. Tara seized the laundry tub s wringer handle and gave it a spin, making the gears clatter cheerfully. "Want me to get water?"

"Firewood, first. Then start filling pots, while I figure out where the soap is."

Five minutes later, Tara had a hatful of fire started, Carol had located an economy sized container of Tide, and they had an audience.

"Laundry?" Father Gabe asked, safely back on earth after a trip up to the house's steep roof to check the chimney. "Oh, thank you Lord, clean clothes?"

Rosita had left Abraham swearing at the Suburban's engine and stood peering at the hip bath. "Is that what I think it is?" She jerked her chin at the rainwater catch tubs beside the house. "There's over eight hundred gallons in those tubs, is that enough for everyone?"

Carol nodded. "If we're careful - wait!" Because Rosita was already reaching for her shirt buttons, right there in front of God and everyone. "Tara gets first dibs, she found it. I'll come get everyone when it's their turn. Meanwhile," she said, raising her voice, "I need everyone to bring their dirty clothes, so I can get started on laundry. She looked at the sky again, and the line of clouds building to the north. "And I need help clearing out the workshop, so the clothes can dry."

The promise of clean things proved a sufficient motivator, although there was a tendency for people to drift past and stare at the iron pot, as if to wish it boiling faster. Rick even sent Carl over from the fence crew to check on the commotion. Carol sent him back with assurances, and Rick sent the boy running back _again_, this time with instructions to gather up dirty clothes from the Grimes packs. "And Michonne's," Carl complained, shoving the mixed armload at Carol. "He made me get her _girl clothes_."

Carol kept her face straight with an effort. Carl adored Michonne, but there were evidently limits.

By this time, Tyreese and Gabe had cleared the space around the potbellied stove and uncovered half a dozen long handles, stacked in a corner and bare of whatever implements they had been intended for. They had also found a bundle of green cord. By the time the first pot of water was boiling, they had a corner of the workshop curtained off with blankets and a folded canvas tarp as a bath rug. The hip bath got hauled back inside, balanced on a handful of bricks, and filled halfway with water from the catch tubs strained but still cold.

Together, Carol and Tara hauled in the steaming pot of water and Carol dipped out hot water with a long handled pot while Tara stripped out of her clothes, dumping them on the floor while a towel and an oversized shirt from the house loft and Tara\' s cleanest pair of jean waited on a handy box. Washcloth and soap in one fist, Tara danced from foot to foot, her skin gone to goosebumps in the still-chilly shed.

"Oh, my god, that's greatness, oh, my -" Tara tested the water once more with her hand, then climbed in, bouncing from foot to foot and then squeaking when the warm water reached her crotch. "Oh, ow, ow, hot." Slowly, she settled in, letting out a huge sigh. "Oh, heaven."

Carol laughed. "First dibs doesn t mean all afternoon. Bring your clothes out when you're done, and you can help me haul more water."

"Whatever you command, my queen," Tara said, waving her hand grandly, scooting down until the water sloshed over the sides.

When a thunder of footsteps hit the roof, she jerked upright. "What the-"

Carol put a hand on her shoulder and pushed the younger woman back in the water. "Wash."

Outside, Eugene and Tyreese had braced a decidedly rickety ladder against the shed for Father Gabriel to climb. "Checking the stovepipe," Tyreese said, not looking away from where Gabriel stretched out a hand, feeling for the pipe cap. "If it's clear, you can get another fire going inside, heat the water faster."

"You want the next turn?"

Tyreese hesitated, then shook his head. "Let me get the trench done. I'll take a turn then."

"All right. Eugene."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You get next turn at the bath. But first you go check and make sure Maggie's had a chance to get her clothes down here, and after, you watch Judith so she can cook. Go ahead, go do that." Carol held out a hand for Eugene s side of the ladder. "I've got this."

Tyreese took his eyes off Gabriel long enough to glance after Eugene as he trotted towards the house. "I don't think that's going to work. She might end up just yelling at him again."

The ladder shifted under Gabriel s weight. They tugged it back into place. "It'll work," Carol said, gritting her teeth. "Eventually."

Tyreese shrugged, not arguing. "You want me to talk to her? Maybe Sasha?"

"I'd appreciate it. Later, maybe. After we all eat." As if in response, Gabriel s stomach rumbled, just as he exclaimed, "Done!" and nearly fell off the ladder. When he was safely back on the ground, he looked from Tyreese to Carol and back again. "What next?"

"Your dirty clothes," Carol said. "And then the trench," finished Tyreese.

Eugene came back then, with an armful of grimy clothing, and Carol went to roust Tara out of the bath. Pink and dripping, Tara dressed and tugged on her boots before heading to the house in good humor to help Maggie.

That left Carol to haul the next load of water, but she only managed one trip before Rosita abandoned Abraham again to help. "He's switched to German," Rosita said, rolling her eyes. "I could see that, if it was a BMW or something, or that old VW van, but really? Not working on Detroit automobiles." She wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a smear of grease. "I think he's going to want to hold off on washing up until a lot later, maybe tomorrow."

"Are you okay with that?"

"Oh, sure, the sleeping bag needs washing too, but it won't dry before tonight. We ll sleep naked and filthy tonight, wash ourselves and the bags tomorrow." She shifted over so Carol could get a hand on the bottom of the bucket and together they poured it into the wash side of the laundry machine.

"Anything I can do to help?"

Rosita scratched her head. "Lunch? And a tarp? Because Cardoc Sprekenze Dutch thinks it's going to rain tonight."

A bit of digging in the boxes stacked under the workshop eaves found the container of tarps Carol had seen earlier, and in gratitude, Rosita helped Carol scrub at the first tub of laundry and work them through the wringer. Tyreese finished up with the trench just as Eugene wandered out of the washtub corner, wearing one of the blankets like a sheet.

When the next load was in the pot, and the wash water steaming, Carol walked back up to the house. The stack of cardboard boxes outside had nearly tripled in size. Tara nodded at her, arms stretched around another load of boxes, and held the door for Carol.

Inside, Eugene sat on an-over turned box, water dripping from his collar, and leaned forward to peer at Judith as she lay wrapt in a blanket on the room s single easy chair. "And then the suave Mayor Lando said, _What are you doing here? What have you done to my ship! _The handsome hero yelled back,_ YOUR ship? Hey, remember you lost her to me, fair and square!_ The beautiful princess was not impressed with either of them. And you should not be either, at this point in the story. They get better." With one hand, Eugene waved at Carol. She waved back, peered over his shoulder at Judith who was doing her level best to bring a foot up to her mouth and followed the smell of chicken soup past the hewn-log stairs to the kitchen side of the house.

Maggie looked up from the wood-fired stove. Inside the house, she was stripped down to a thin shirt and still sweating. "Hey, Carol." Sitting at her feet on the newly swept floor, Noah nodded at Carol without looking up from the canned goods he was sorting.

"Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Seventeen one-pound cans of beets." Noah made a mark on the notepad hanging from the drawer handle. "I bet there's even more in that root cellar."

"Must have liked beets," Carol said. "Maggie, how's dinner going?" Carol leaned a hip against the stairway, where an unstained log stretched from the bottom of the stairs up through the ceiling.

Maggie tasted the pot and made a face. "Needs garlic. It'll be ready in a few minutes. Not sure if it's ever going to be good."

"I'll pass the word. Are you done with Noah for right now? There s a bucket of hot water, and I think he's next on the list."

"Oh, god, yes, take him. He reeks and is contaminating my kitchen." Noah was already scrambling to his feet, dodging the teasing boot that Maggie sent his way. "Go, you, wash yourself. How is the laundry coming?" Maggie asked Carol, shaking salt over the pot.

"Slow. I m using the rinse water to stretch the bathwater, I hope no one minds."

"They won't. Just like the' re not going to mind that three quarters of this soup is carrots and the rest chicken noodle. So long as it's hot, no one in their right mind is going to say a word." She stirred vigorously. "Not that it wouldn't be nice to have a roast for supper. Is Daryl back yet?"

Carol shook her head.

Maggie met her eyes then went back to stirring. "Bet he got lost. That s going to be a fun story, if we ever get it out of him. Oh," she pointed at the table, where a stack of papers sat. "Found Andys papers Mr Seville, I mean. Had a will and everything, in the kitchen drawer on top of the knives. Left everything to the Georgia Wildlife Federation, no mention of kids at all. So I figure he was up here all by himself, maybe a little while before it all came apart, and just died." She shrugged. "Sometimes that happens, you know."

Carol nodded. After a moment, she said, "Better get back to laundry, make sure Noah can find the soap."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Some imagry stolen from various places, including Superbowl commericials, canon, and other fics. Thanks to FS for beta. Other notes at the end of part I.


	3. Confluence

**A/N at the end.**

* * *

><p>The firebreak, when Daryl got to it finally, was pristine – no sign at all that any human had come by in the last month, much less that more than a dozen boots had tramped through in the last hour.<p>

Daryl looked at the unmarked sand and let the body of the buck slide from his shoulders in disgust.

The buck had run for most of a mile, the broad-headed idiot, with Daryl too afraid of losing the deer to another walker to risk just stopping and letting the deer find a thicket to lie down in and bleed out. The chase ended, finally, when the weakened buck tripped headlong into a gully, caught his antlers on a catbriar vine, and snapped his fool neck.

It was a bitch hauling the buck's fat ass up out of the ditch, but finding out that the arrowhead hadn't cut open the gut after all nearly made up for it. He cut enough of a gap in the ribs to pull the bolt free and check for the stink of a ruptured bowel, but didn't dress the deer any further than that. It would leak blood bad enough from mouth and side, and it wasn't worth wasting the heart and liver to dress it in the woods.

Then he had hefted the buck up and carried the damn thing back a mile and a half; plus more - the sun had slipped well past noon, and the group hadn't been running, but they hadn't been dawdling, either. Daryl pulled out the map, checked the terrain, and figured something like an intercept that would bring him out on the firebreak at about the same time as the rest of the group.

A little jogging down the slopes would cheat a little more time on his side. He could see it now, all the group come straggling up, to find Daryl sitting on the edge of the trail and this big-ass chunk of dinner. Carol would be smiling, that smug little grin she'd gotten sometime over the last few months at the prison, like a cat that had been at the grease pan in the kitchen, all self-satisfied. In his head, she would be thinking, _yeap, still the luckiest woman on the planet_, and damn if he was ever going to risk her thinking any different.

Even if she should be outright questioning her own sanity, by all rights. Daryl snuggled his butt further down in the dirt, leaning back on the buck.

_I wish I could show you this_, he thought, craning his head back to stare at the blue sky, the iron grey line of clouds building to the north west, the stark pattern the bare branches made in the air between ground and sky.

_Was stupid, was what it was_. No different, really, from the trees they had passed the day before, from the sky that morning. Nothing special to it.

_Not like if'n you were here, now, watchin' it with me_.

He sighed, looked again down the trail, looked at the buck. If he walked to meet them, he'd catch them twice as soon.

"Fuck," he breathed, straightening his knees under the load. "You sonnabitch, you get heavier every damn time."

Slowly, Carol's mental list of need-to-dos shortened as, one after another, people came by to report success and check on the status of hot water. Maggie called people in to eat – a row of bowls balanced on knees around the dwindling space on the front porch. Gabriel and Noah hauled the pot with the rest of the soup out to the fenceline. Glenn came back alone, with the empty pot and a hankering for a bath. By the time Tyreese was out of the water, the latrine trench had been hung with a privacy curtain, and embellished with a bucket of water for washing and a bottle of soap. Sasha, replaced on the road watch by Glenn, helped Carol pull a half-burned log from the hot water fire and got a fire started in the workshed's potbellied stove. Half the fence crew came trudging back with scratches and cuts, but also bearing arm loads of deadfalls. A set of poles appeared – allegedly for Carol to hang clothes on, but before she could do more than wonder how to use them, Tyreese absconded with the poles to set up a tarp roof over the latrine trench. Shortly after, Eugene barged out of the house, with Maggie storming out after him as far as the porch, shaking a dish towel in her hand. "- did you think!" Maggie shouted. "It was his hand! It got cut off! Off course she started crying, you idiot!"

She went back in the house, slamming the door. Judith's wails rose thinly from within the walls.

Eugene stared at the door for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets and slouching his way down to the workshop. "Hey," Carol said.

Eugene nodded, walking around looking at things, his whole body projecting misery.

Fifteen minutes later, after Eugene had found a hammer, a box, and was ineffectively attempting to run more clothes lines, the front door slammed open again. Carol looked up from the basin to see Maggie stomping all the way down, a well-wrapped Judith still crying in her arms. She went straight up to Eugene and snapped, "Get down."

Eugene stared at her, hammer still raised and two bent nails in his mouth.

"I said, get down." He dropped the hammer and scrambled off the box. "It's your stupid story, tell her how he gets his hand back and they rescue Han so she'll stop crying." She held out Judith. "Now, you moron."

Eugene blinked and gingerly took the baby. When he would have sat down on the box right there, Maggie snapped at him again. "Not here, in the house." She pointed. "Now."

Eugene went. Maggie shook her head and followed. Carol bit her lip and went to find Carl, next on her bath list.

In between chasing people out of the bathtub, sending cleaner people up to the house for more towels and recruiting any passer-by to help wring out laundry, fetch clean water and dump the used water down the driveway, Carol cautiously shifted through the workshed. Some of it she sent to the house – canned goods, a set of books on survival, a box of blank notebooks. Others she set to the side – three clean blankets, an oil lamp with a fresh wick, two green foam pads. A vague plan was forming at the edge of her thoughts, but she refused to let it out in the open. Not while the sun was slanting towards sunset, and Daryl still not back.

She ran out of places to hang clothes on the improvised racks and clotheslines with Sasha's shirt and a pair of Eugene's pants still in the tub and took up where Eugene had left off, trying to make more room. The shed's contents were containerized in a startling spectrum of manners – everything from trunks on wheels large enough for Carol to spend a short and uncomfortable night in, through Rubbermaid type tubs, packing boxes, flimsy paperboard for cases of beer and the old style metal milk crates to plastic trash bags in a rainbow of hues. Where the boxes were heavy enough, she wedged the handles of yard tools between, ran more line between the free ends, and hung clothes from line, handles, and everything, using every bit of space.

But when the handles proved unwisely placed, or the stabilizing boxes too light, it brought down everything. Sasha wandered over to the shed to check on her turn in the wash line and found Carol roundly cursing a weak framed cardboard box of magazine which had given up the ghost, split neatly up both sides, and spilled five years of _Gearhead Magazine_, a hoe handle, and half a load of laundry on an insufficiently swept section of the floor.

"- should have been recycled ten years ago, and all your contents," Carol snapped, chucking the magazines and the remains of the box in the general direction of the pot-bellied stove.

"Need a hand?" Sasha asked, not waiting for an answer before stooping to untangle the mess.

"Oh, thanks," Carol sighed. "I just thought I had this set good enough." She tugged the line off the hoe handle. "One thing breaks down, though, and it all comes apart." She sighed and stepped back from the wall of containers, looking for a place to wedge the handle.

"Here," Sasha said, holding out her hand. "I got it."

Carol nodded her thanks and handed it over. While Sasha shoved at a few boxes, testing their weight, Carol bent to pick the laundry up off the gritty floor.

"There, that's better. Cord?" Carol tugged the cord free from the armful of clothes and passed it over. Sasha looped the end over the handle end twice, tugged it tight. "You're not seriously going to re-wash those, are you?"

"No, just rinse them. We've got enough water for that."

Sasha put her hands on the laundry tub and leaned over it, frowning. "Yeah, but still. It's just dirt. You've already scrubbed off the funk. And that's my shirt, and I don't care if it ever sees soap. And those are Eugene's pants, and _no one_ cares. Carol, you do enough work."

Carol shook the pants, sending sand flying, before dumping them in the tub. "It's important."

"Laundry? Carol, eating's important. Watching for walkers is important. Cleaning all this – it's nice, but –"

Carol took a deep breath. "Clean things are important." She dunked the clothes in the rinse water again. "You don't have to use this, I'll get you clean water for your bath."

"What? No, damnit, Carol!" Sasha slapped the side of the tub, spun away with her hand over her mouth, then stopped. After a breath, she dropped her hand and turned back to Carol. "I'm sorry."

Carol stared back, the clothes still in the tub. "It's okay. We have enough water." She sluiced water over the pants.

Sasha took a deep breath, looked down, folded her arms. "It's not that. I can take a bath in ditch water. Please. I don't understand. Why so much effort on the laundry?"

Carol shrugged. "It's getting harder to find clean clothes. We need to take care of what we have. It'll be important, this winter." Putting the pants in the wringer, she said, "Clean clothes make people happy." She locked the top roller down. Sasha stepped in, took the handle. "No, the other way." Sasha reversed the motion, slowly moving the pants through the winger, water cascading down and less-wet pants appearing on the other side.

"How did you learn how to run one of these?"

"Old book at the prison. They had a lot of stuff at the library, FoxFire books, that sort of thing, for solving problems."

"And you're all about making people happy." Carol raised her eyebrows. Sasha shook her head. "No, still not buying it. Why is laundry important?"

Carol looked down at her hands. "Laundry will kill you just the same as walkers. Don't laugh," she said flatly, as Sasha snorted. "When your clothes are dirty, they're not as warm. When you're cold, you need more food. When you're cold, you're stupid. Stupid gets you killed." She reached for the next shirt. "It's worse for the little ones. We don't have enough antibiotics. Dirty clothes hold bacteria on the skin, infect scratches and blisters." She took a deep breath. "I don't know if you remember, but the Wilson baby, back at the prison? It was diaper rash that killed her – they weren't washing the diapers often enough. Just got used to the stink. Got infected, the baby stopped eating, wouldn't stop crying. And then she died." She scrubbed harder. "It could happen to Judith. It could happen to Li – to Carl. It happened to other people at the prison, too." She stopped, looked up at Sasha. "You were sick. You weren't trying to – you didn't have to see the people, dying. Not making it." Her voice was shaking at the end.

Sasha swallowed. "I – I didn't – God." She put her hands over her face. When she dropped them, her face was flat and kind. "It's the end of the world and people keep dying. I don't want to fight."

Carol nodded, bent over the clothes again. Wordlessly, they rinsed the rest of the clothes, hung them to dry. Carol reached for the water buckets. Sasha took the second one.

When the next load of water was full and the fire built back up, Sasha asked, "How do you stand it, then - Daryl always being ragged and wearing the same pants for weeks?"

Carol shook her head, huffed a laugh. "It's not that bad. And he's better, now."

"You're good for him," Sasha smiled. "You're good for all of us." She hugged her arms to herself. "I wish Bob was here, with his idiot jokes."

Carol nodded, swiped at her eyes briefly. "I miss Beth. She'd sing, while we worked. Made it easier."

Sasha snorted. "Well, I ain't singing for you. I can go get Eugene, have him tell you a story, but I ain't singing."

"Go get your soap. You're up next for a bath."

Sasha turned to leave, then stepped back and abruptly hugged Carol, before releasing her and striding away to the house.

After she finished her bath, and dumped the water, Sasha found Carol by the metal shed, poking through the brambles for deadfall wood.

"I found you something," Sasha said, "For your raggedy man." She held out a thick leather case. "Take it. I'll find Tyreese, get him to help haul wood over."

It was an old-style men's shaving kit. Carol carried the stack of branches back to the laundry fire before opening it up. The kit was unadorned, practical and second hand – there were sharpening marks on the blades, and the brush bristles were still stiff with old soap. Carol ran a finger over it - shining metal blades, ivory colored round-handled brush, a delicate pair of scissors – before folding it away and tucking the case with her stash of blankets.

She was hanging the next-to-last load of clothes when a call came from down the trail. Michonne made an inquiring noise from the bath, but refused to move to investigate, her head still a sudsy mass of braids and foam.

Carol draped the last shirt so the sleeves wouldn't drag in the dirt and went to stand in the doorway. Glenn's voice floated up from the firebreak, cheerful and hearty, followed in due time by Daryl trudging up to the inner gate with a surprisingly sizeable deer over his shoulders. Glenn paced beside him, shortening his steps so as to not surge ahead, and unwound the wire to let Daryl pass into the yard. Carol set down the tub she'd been using as a basket and came across the yard to meet them.

"-and there's a few places where trees fell on the fence, but we cleared most of them off. It's going to be crowded but good. Oh, hey, Carol. Okay, I'll go tell Rick you're back." Glenn bounded off for the house, leaving Daryl to make the rest of the way on his own.

Daryl's eyes were sweeping the house and the shed, and she felt her heart settle when they found her face. He stopped as she came up, bounced a bit to heft the buck higher on his shoulders. "Hey."

"Nice buck," she said, turning to point at the oak tree by the shed. "There's a gambrel rack hung in one of the trees that might work."

Daryl nodded, leaned forward and stepped toward the tree. His neck bowed under the deer, he tilted his head as he passed her and grinned, "A nice rack, huh?"

Carol swatted at his arm. "You stop." He sidestepped away from her, wavered, and then pressed on. She hurried to catch up, noting how his legs took the weight of each stride.

At the tree Daryl let the deer slide to the ground. He stood like that for a moment, bent and arms braced on his knees. Despite the chill, blood and sweat had soaked his shirt, staining the embroidered wings pink. Carol tugged at the chains, sorting the links so the metal bar with the hooks came down to knee level. Daryl drew his knife and reached for the deer's back leg, smoothly stripping away the skin and exposing the thick tendon behind the ankle.

Carol dragged over the gambrel. Daryl took the hook, grinning at her as he did so. "What?"

"Remember when you called this a spreader bar?"

She smiled back. "Well, I didn't know what to call it. I know better now."

"Yeah. Mostly I'm laughing at how surprised I was, that you knew what a spreader bar was."

"Daryl Dixon. You didn't know me then. I had depths."

He cleaned the other leg, attached it. "Don't I know it."

Together they heaved the buck up until the gambrel link hit the pulley. The buck's antlers still rested on the ground, the stiff forelegs dragging shallow furrows in the dirt.

Daryl stepped back, straightening his back and working his shoulders carefully. Carol folded her arms, carefully not looking as he dug the knuckles of one fist into the small of his back. "It's a nice buck," she said again. "Where did you get it?"

Daryl snorted. "Hit fresh tracks about an hour after I left you people. Found a little doe, was pushing her back towards the road, then this guy showed up. Hit him, but he took off. Spent a while chasing him. Then I about outsmarted myself and cut across to catch you guys on the road." He moved his arms again. "Should have stuck with the doe. Still have to clean this beast."

"I'll help."

"Nah," Daryl shook his head, jerked his chin at the racks of clothes and the steaming pot. "My kill, I'll handle it. You're busy. Washing clothes, getting' cozy – there any food here?" He stared around, "Where _is_ everyone?"

Carol laughed. "We've been here since a little after noon." She held up a hand, ticking off items. "Firewood. Fence. Trench. Rick took Michonne and Noah out scouting – they just got back. Michonne's finishing a bath now. Clearing out rooms in the cabin – yes, multiple rooms, mostly stacked with boxes of all sorts of things. There's even a loft. And a bear-proof larder – that took a bit of work. And Abraham and Rosita were working on the Suburban there for most of the afternoon."

Daryl grunted. "Water? Oh – those tanks?" When Carol nodded, he slowly turned, looking over the whole site. "Small. Really small." He scratched at his chest and shivered – he'd stopped sweating when he put the deer down, and now his shirt hung wet in the breeze. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Shit." Daryl looked back at the deer. "Did you say there was food? Or is this it?" He waved at the pot hung over the fire in the drive way.

"Oh, no, that's laundry. Well, the big one is. Supper's inside, Maggie's working on it. Are you hungry? We can get you a plate."

He squinted at her. "Maggie's cooking? She over that what-ever-it was, stomach bug thing? Not going to make us all start puking, is she?"

Carol folded her arms. "No, not going to make us sick. You want a plate?"

He gestured at the deer, then at the yard. "Yeah, I could eat…but…getting dark soon." He shivered again. Carol bit her lip, kept her fists knotted at her side. Every motion seemed to drag extra effort out of him. "Got to get the deer cleaned, don't want to waste the food."

Carol let it go. "Okay, you get started. I'll get you a plate." She strode off for the main house, risking a glance back as she went. He stood before the deer, knife in one fist, watching her go. She gave him a quick smile and walked faster.

Rick met her at the door, shifting yet another of the endless sets of boxes out of the house proper. "Daryl's back?" he asked, standing against the door to let her in.

"Brought a deer. He's cleaning it now. I'm getting him a plate."

"Good. Glenn said Daryl missed us, had to back track."

"I guess. He's pretty wore out." She hesitated in the doorway, watching Daryl fist the hide off the deer's backquarters. "Michonne's about done – do you want to wash up?"

"Nah, I'll wait until everyone else has a turn."

"Why don't you bring down Judith, then?" When Rick nodded, Carol said, almost hesitantly, "It could be good to stay here for a few days. Everyone needs a rest."

Rick snorted. "You've got all our spare clothes sopping wet. Abraham's got that Suburban's entire front end tore apart. Maggie is making menus for the next week." He step aside, let the screen door shut. "I don't think we're going anywhere."

Supper, evidently, was to be old gamey potatoes from the root cellar, beets, and three canned hams, cut in slices and fried. The potatoes were barely done and the ham was two end pieces, but Daryl took one look and put down his skinning knife. Rick came down, before Daryl finished, with Judith in one arm and a second plate in the other. Daryl started on that one, too, while Rick went to work on the deer and Carol took Judith in for a bath.

"You done?" she called to Michonne. "I've got Judith, if you'll give me a hand."

"Just about, go ahead and bring her in," Michonne said from behind the blanket.

Judith took one look at Michonne's towel wrapt head and bare skin and started screaming.

"Oh, no, you don't –" Carol sing-sang. "I'll drop you in and drown you, you little monkey."

Judith hiccupped, blinked at Carol, then started crying again. Michonne laughed and slung a towel around her waist. "Going to be one of those days, huh?"

"Yeap. Here, take her and let me get my shirt off. Wait, let me dump the water first." Michonne bounced Judith out of outright screaming and into anxious fretting while Carol used the long handled pot to dip water out of the tub before dragging it out to dump the rest. Michonne ducked out of the cubby – still just in a pair of towels – to fetch the warm water off the stove. She filled the tub with lukewarm water while Carol set Judith on the tarp and peeled the toddler out of her clothes and diaper before stripping down to her bra. Together, the two of them got Judith in the tub, wet her all over, soaped her all over, rinsed, and her hair washed. Half way through, Judith stopped crying, but never quit kicking, wiggling, and flailing.

Michonne grunted, ducked a wave of water and said, "Forget synchronized swimming, this should be an Olympic event."

Carol grunted, shifted her grip on Judith's bottom as a scissoring foot sent not-so-warm water all over her front. "Going to be fun, doing it in a frozen bucket in February."

Michonne smiled that glorious brilliant grin, but whatever she was going to say was cut off when Rick pulled the blanket aside. "You left her clean diaper – uh."

Michonne grinned wider and sat back on her heels, pulling her shoulder blades together and reaching out a hand to take the diaper from Rick's hand. "Thank you. We'll be done in a minute."

Carol risked a glance up from Judith – doing her best dancing mermaid impression and threatening to slip from Carol's hands – long enough to see Rick drag his eyes back up to Michonne's face and blush furiously before dropping the blanket and backing away. "Deer's done, taking the guts to the kitchen," he called, over lapping with Daryl's voice. "Hitting the jacks."

Carol bent her head over the baby, snickering. "You are awful to him."

Michonne snorted. "If the man would just take a hint, he wouldn't have to put up with so much. Not all of us get through on the first attempt."

Carol sighed, reached for a towel. "Not as easy as that. And you know it."

Michonne held Judith for Carol to towel her off. "Nothing worthwhile ever is. Here, let me get dressed." She tugged on a pair of shirts and a baggy set of trousers before stuffing her feet – still sockless – into her boots. Carol wrapped Judith's tush in the clean diaper. Taking Judith back, Michonne asked, "You want me to come back down, help you set up a bath for yourself?"

Carol, shrugging into a clean flannel shirt, started to shake her head. Then the blanket pulled back, letting the last of the sunset pour over them. She looked up as Daryl said, "Nah. I got it. Take lil ass-kicker, get in out of the wind." He kept his eyes on Carol, who let her hands fall from the buttons she had been fastening.

As she ducked past Daryl, Judith quietly chattering to herself in her arms, Michonne looked back long enough to give Carol a saucy wink.

Carol shook her head. Daryl, still holding the blanket aside, said, "C'mon. Not getting any warmer."

When she stepped out, he let the blanket drop, his arms gathering her in and her head coming to rest against his shoulder. She slid her arms around his waist and stood there for a long moment, her nose tucked against his neck, breathing in the complex smell of sweat, blood, supper, dirty clothes and Daryl.

"You need a bath," she said against his skin, finally. He snorted, making both of them rock.

"Stop."

She stood there a bit longer, then pushed out of his arms. Surely it was not her imagination that he was as reluctant to let go of her as she was of him. "Come on, I found some clothes that might fit, and there's water for washing."

"M'fine."

"You are not. You are rank. You need to wash. Here, give me a hand."

He reached past her, pointed at the washing tub, still sitting on the gravel outside the shed. "That's the water for washing, right? Or is that for clothes? No, I got –"

She cut him off. "Let me rinse these, then you can dump the water, and then I'll hang these. We can use the rinse water for washing. There's more hot water on the stove in there."

He waited impatiently as she refilled the rinse basin from the iron pot and kicked dirt over the embers beneath it. A scattering of rain drops came down as the sun slipped behind the edge of the incoming storm. She ran the clothes through the wringer, letting them drop in the rinse basin, then opened the plug, let the grey wash water drain out, and ran the clothes through again.

"There," she said. "Dump the water from Judith's bath, take some of the hot water and warm the rinse water up." She walked back in the workshop, stopping to pull down one of the rolled up garage doors. "There's clothes here, a towel," she waved a hand. "A lamp, too."

"I got it. He stood close to her, breath misting in the dusky chill. "D'jeetchet?" When she shook her head, he put a hand on her shoulder, pushed her gently towards the house. "Go. Get you something. I got this." He shoved at her again, harder. "Don't be a Judith, woman. Go feed yourself."

That made her laugh, and from the flash of his teeth in the gloom, it was supposed to.

Noah met her on the porch, cradling a shotgun in his arms, and opened the door for Carol, letting her into a scene of remarkable domestic tranquility.

The bottom floor of the house was little more than one room, the staircase barely a visual barrier between the great room and the kitchen area. Heat from the stove hit her face with an almost palpable caress. Abraham lay on his back in the middle of the living room, with Rosita sitting behind him, back to the wall. Her toes were propped on his shoulders and her fingers stroked slowly through his grimy red hair. Carol smiled at them and got a grin back from Rosita. Abraham waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Didn't expect to see you tonight," Maggie said. She was sitting in the easy chair, wrapt in a blue plaid blanket with Judith sleeping on her chest. Glenn sat at her feet, holding one yellow-socked foot in his lap, slowly working her ankle in wide circles.

"Came to get supper," Carol said. "And check on you all."

"We're fine," Rick said, coming down the stairs in sock feet. "Everyone's eaten, got the watch schedule set, half of us are even clean. You're off the watch for tonight, if you were wondering. You and Daryl both."

Carol ducked her head. Abraham let out a low wolf whistle, cutting off abruptly as Rosita clapped her hands over his mouth. Maggie rolled her eyes. Glenn grinned and gave Carol a thumbs-up. Maggie kicked him.

"Hey," he protested, "It was for the baths. Baths are awesome." Maggie snorted and closed her eyes again.

"Ignore them," Rick advised. "Although, I think Michonne and Judith agree about the baths. You want something to eat?" He led Carol past the staircase to the kitchen, stepping past a broad blanket-draped lump that could only be Eugene. "Here," Rick said, lifting an enameled lid from the counter to reveal a white bowl of potatoes and ham. "Sorry, we ran out of beets." He pulled open a drawer. "And a spoon."

Against the far wall, Tyreese's snores laid down a beat like an ocean tide, steady and unstoppable. Father Gabriel's sighs made a treble counterpoint. Under a hurricane lamp, Sasha looked up from a book, waved her fingers at Carol and turned the page before tucking her hand back inside her blanket. Rick's hand lay at the small of her back, gently guiding her back to the door.

On the porch, Noah wished her a quiet good night and settled back into his chair, tugging his cap down and the blanket up around his ears. "Rick said to tell you, you and Daryl are off watch tonight. Both of you, in case you asked."

Carol ducked her head, shifted her grip on the spoon. "He told me, but thank you." She smiled at him. "You have a good watch. Stay warm."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** More notes at the end of chapter 1. Thanks to FS for beta.


	4. Taps

**A/N:** At the End

* * *

><p>Down in the workshop, both of the garage doors were pulled shut. A golden light leaked around the entry door.<p>

She opened the door to find Daryl with a clean flannel shirt hanging from his shoulders and tugging on a new, untorn pair of jeans. His skin was still wet, his hair mussed in all directions at once. The blankets hung in the corner were flipped to one side and the hip bath pulled close to the stove. A teacup's worth of water pooled under the last of the fresh hung clothes, dripping slowly from a leg of Rick's jeans. Against the wall of boxes, the bedding she had set aside was a jumbled mess with her clean clothes piled tidily on top.

Suspicious, she leaned over the bath, tested it with one hand. Daryl's red rag floated in the laundry rinse water, now cold to the touch. "Daryl!" she protested.

"Hush. I'm beat, don't carry on." He fastened his jeans and stomped his feet back into his boots before pointing at the overturned milk crate, now within arm's reach of the stove. "Go ahead, sit, eat. Less you wanna go back up to the house."

She sat. He folded his arms, glared at her until she dug the fork into the potatoes. By the time she swallowed the first mouthful, she was starving. He watched her scoop up the first few bites, and then drained the washtub before carrying the grey water outside. When she finished scrapping up the last bits of ham, she set the bowl to one side and made her way to the trench.

The trench itself was relatively civilized, with the tarp overhead and the curtains proofed against drafts with anchors of dirt. Someone had even tucked the toilet paper roll in a plastic bag. But the rain was starting to pick up, and by the time she got back to the workshed, her shoulders were dotted with sleet. Shivers ran through her, making her hand shake on the door handle.

Inside, Daryl bent over the pile of bedding, tugging the last blanket smooth. As she came in, locking the door behind her, he stood and went to the stove. Wrapping a towel around the pot handles, he poured half the steaming water into the bath in one thick stream.

"Wait, not all of it!" Carol knelt by the bath, stirring it with her fingers. It was hot, a little too much, but her hands were aching with the cold, her feet were freezing, and Daryl was standing there, the pot back on the stove and the towel end flipped over his shoulder.

She looked one more time, found her clean things now piled on the milk crate, and started stripping off her dirty clothes.

The water was scalding after the frigid concrete floor of the workshop. She gasped, pulled the foot out. Daryl caught her as she wavered.

"Hold on." He dipped out two panfuls of hot water, getting most of them back into the pot on the stove. The spilled drops hissed and danced on the old iron. Three panfuls went back in – not the laundry rinse water, but clean from a covered pot with rain still standing on the lid. He swirled a hand in the tub, stood back.

This time, she held out a hand, let him support her as she tested the temperature. She nodded, "Better," and stepped in with the second foot. The combination of warm water and cold air made her skin prickle, made all the coarse hairs on her legs stiffen and catch bubbles of air as she sank down.

She let herself fall back, the metal cooler than the water but already pleasantly warm. Her knees rose above the surface, even more when she scooted down far enough to slosh water over her collarbones. She wiggled a bit, put her toes up on the rim and let her rump slide all the way to the end, sinking further down until the water rose over her ears, lapped at the sides of her face.

"Oh, _god_, I've been waiting for this all day", she said, and the water in her ears made the sound queer, as if coming from another place, another voice, another person.

* * *

><p>She was having <em>fun<em>.

It took him a moment to recognize – this was _her_, the real Carol, who laughed at him, laughed at the world, who loved the world, and faced it, and threw her love back at the world even when all of creation was trying to bury her under misery and heartbreak. This was the Carol that survived – that _thrived_, that would take everything the world threw at her and _live_.

He stood there, watching her play in the water like an otter-wife from the old stories, and felt his breath come easier. As if his chest had finally become accustomed to some weight and now could work under the burden.

If she'd had some _gentleman_ to be her man, some fancy guy with money and a big house, some guy like that – well, that guy would have let her be, left her to play in the hot water in private, in whatever huge hot water pool he'd built for her. With people to fetch her towels and rub her skin with fancy cream and take care of her like she deserved.

But what she had was a squatter's share of a cold shed and a half-bucket of lukewarm rain water and Daryl Dixon, so he dragged the milk crate out of way, so as to not shadow her from the warm stove, and took a seat beside her, his ass in new jeans on her clean clothes and her rag-an-soap in his paw, for whenever she wanted it.

She came up out of the water, eventually, and smiled when he handed her the soap. Didn't seem to mind him sitting there, but wasn't asking him to put his hands on her, either. So he just sat there, elbows on his knees, watching as she worked soap into her hair and dunked it clean again, her left arm still doing twice the work of her right, even though the bruises on her shoulder were faded and gone.

She finished with her hair sat up and swiped the water from her face. Now she worked the soap into the rag, getting a good white foam going before she dropped the soap over the side. She ran the washrag over her breasts, down the slope of her ribs, across the slight curve of her belly, down to the dark thatch of hair between her legs and up one leg and over the knee. Then it came back up over the other knee, down her thigh, and up over her ribs again. Her slight breasts moved as she stretched to wash her shoulder.

Her belly below her ribs was nearly flat, empty. Running low on rations, like all – like most of them.

"Maggie didn't really get food poisoning, did she?"

Carol stopped, let both hands and the wash cloth fall into the tub. She looked at him, straight in the eyes. It was him who looked away first. _Well, in for a penny…_

To their shadows on the wall, he said, "Not for two weeks straight, she don't. And only in the middle of the day. Why the fuck do they call it morning sickness, anyhow?"

Carol snorted, went back to washing. "I was sick first thing in the morning for two months, nearly every day, with Sophia."

Daryl shifted on the milk crate. _Awesome, man._ _What a killjoy_. He buried his face in his hands. "Well, good," he said, finally, coming up for air. "If she had something, she coulda given it to the rest of us. This is better, right?"

She sighed, bent forward and laid the side of her face in the water. "It's something."

* * *

><p>She let him wash her back, then, hugging her knees and reveling in the sensation, warmth pouring over her back, crackling fire laying against her cheek and the warm water cupping the undersides of her breasts. He shifted off the milk crate and crouched next to her, his hands working the washcloth into the long muscles of her back, finding all the aches that had come on during the day, and the day prior, and the many months that lay before that. For a long time, she let it go on - the warmth, his cautious, clumsy hands, the huff of his breath over her skin. It was nothing she deserved, but if she was damned for a lamb, then she'd steal this slice of paradise as well. His hand came to a rest on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing aside the hair at the nape of her neck, before he bent to press a kiss to the skin there.<p>

Eventually, the water cooled. She stirred and Daryl rose with her, bringing a towel to wrap around her shoulders and another draped over his hands. He dried her upper body, his hands grazing over her ribs and following the trail laid earlier by the bathwater. Then he knelt so that she could step out of the tub one foot at a time. He made her take her time, rubbing her legs dry and planting a kiss on each knee cap.

She still had her hands on his shoulders as he rose, drawing the now-damp towel around her, letting the heat from the stove beat against the back of her thighs. Standing, he bent his head, kissed each of her eyelids. One hand released the edge of the towel, the other shifting to pin the free end as it slid down her side. His free hand trailed up her abdomen, making her breath catch as they traced over the hollow beneath her heart, up her sternum, his knuckles grazing against her breast. The fingers of his other hand spread over her hip, digging into the towel, pulling her to him. Then he touched her chin, tilted her head up to meet him.

She slid her hands up from his shoulders, cupping the sides of his jaw, her thumbs playing through the rough hair on his chin. His tongue traced over her teeth as if tasting the supper she'd just eaten, the warmth she'd soaked in from the bath, ravenous for her. He shifted his feet, rocking her with him, and captured the back of her neck in his hand, pulling her mouth to his, drinking her down like sparkling wine.

She repaid him, kiss for kiss, hunger for hunger, and matched her hands to his, cupping his head in her fingers, raking her fingers against his scalp, through his hair –

- his road-stiff, gritty, _still-grimy_ hair.

When they broke apart, she clenched her hands on his head. "Daryl Dixon," she hissed. "You did_ not_ wash your hair."

He had the nerve – the unbelievable _gall_ to stand there, looking at her as though he had no idea what she was going on about. "I washed," as his eyes slid sideways, betraying him again. "All over. Just…"

She took a deep breath, already regretting making an issue of it, but her hands were twitching to wipe her fingers clean on the towel. He was tired, the lines on his face no less stark for having washed the grime away, for being hidden under coarse stubble…

She leaned back into him, tucked her nose into the hollow of his collarbone where he smelled of soap and himself, and locked her arms around his waist. "I love you." The words came from very far away, as if she were floating in the bath again.

He checked the motion of his arms, then finished, let them settle firm and close on her shoulders. His nose nuzzled at the top of her head, the hairs stirring as he huffed a sigh. "..orry."

She squeezed her arms around him again before stepping away, deliberately breaking contact, mindful of the edge of the stove. She let the towel fall – held up a finger as he would have followed her – and snatched up a curtain blanket from the pile in the corner. Her free hand found the shaving kit, tucked it under one arm as she wrapt herself in the rough material and gathered up another blanket.

"You," she said, shaping the second blanket in messy folds and dropping it beside the bath, "sit." She softened it with a smile. "I think you'll like it."

* * *

><p>She had covered herself back up in that blanket – musty from storage, he had gotten a good whiff earlier, and dropped on the floor, and no cleaner than his hair, he did <em>not<em> know what her problem was - but there was that wicked grin and the long line of her arm, from her pointing finger to the arc of her shoulder, collar bones like the antlers of a young deer –

Daryl sat.

She bustled about, collecting things one handed and trying to trip over the trailing blanket and brain herself on the stove. Clean, cold water, hot water, the long handled dipping pot, cold water mixed with hot water, a bottle of dish soap that came from god-knows-where – he thought it was taking her forever, but the warmth of the stove and the way the lamp lit the curve of her calf as it slipped in and out of the blanket made the waiting not such a burden. It made her happy, to fuss about doing things, and he could stand a bit of feeling the fool kid, if that's what he got for her.

She came over to him, finally, and held out a mostly not damp towel. "Take your shirt off," she said. "You'll get it wet." The shirt went on top of her clothes, on the milk crate, and she settled down on it, tucking the blanket close around her as he snugged the not-damp towel around his back and shoulders.

Another towel folded over the rim of the hip bath to support his neck, and he let himself be persuaded down – shoulders half lying on one of her thighs, his legs stretched out and toes canted towards the stove, one of her elbows under his head and the other arm combing his hair back.

"Shut your eyes," she murmured, and he obeyed just as she poured water over his head. A clink of metal on metal as she set the pot back in the , then the quick flick of her fingers over his eyelids, wiping them clear. Rivulets ran down his temples. Another dipperful of water, then the rude fart of dishsoap being squeezed out.

He snorted and she chuckled with him, planting a quick peck on the end of his nose. "Relax, I've got you," she said, scrunching at his hair one-handed. He could feel the ache starting in his neck, but it felt wrong, to make her hold him, he had to be heavy and she was leaning over him, all at awkward angles. "Shhh, I got you, relax," she said again. "There, that's it," as he let his head fall back. One hand came up, all of its own, to touch her elbow – not grasping, not clinging, just to hold, fingers cupped around her arm, feeling the solid muscle slipping over bone shifting as she scrubbed at his head.

"Last rinse, hold your head." Her arm slipped away – slowly, letting him take up the strain of holding his head up – and then her palm lay firm over his eyes. The water poured over his head again, a pass of both hands, wringing water away from his scalp, and then she was tugging him up, her hands on his shoulders, turning him away from her, pulling him back to rest with his hips between her knees. The towel slipped up over his head as she vigorously rubbed at his hair. She checked it and applied the towel again before finger-combing his hair straight. Turned away from the stove, the air was chill on his damp skin, making him shiver.

He made to get up, but she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. Twisting his neck around, Daryl scowled at her through the fringe. "You done?"

"Nope." Setting the towel aside, she scooted closer to him, put both hands on his head and faced him forward again, before rearranging the blanket so that it enfolded both of them. "Better?" She encircled his neck with her arms, pressed a kiss to his temple. "Getting sleepy?"

"Yea – _no_." When she laughed, her breasts shifted against his back. _God_.

"Good." She unfolded her arms and leaned back, scooting up a bit on the milk crate. "Lean back."

"What?" But she was already pulling at his shoulders, re-folding the ends of the blanket, and unzipping a black leather case. He blinked, not following her purpose, until she brought out the straight razor and set it on the wet towel over the edge of the bath. Then the smell of the shaving soap hit him, something distinct and powerful and _alien_ in this cold little room wallpapered with other people's ragged laundry.

He half-turned, his elbow up on her knees, staring up at her. She went still, the soap holder in her hand and the damp badger-bristle brush in the other.

"This is okay, isn't it? I'll be careful, promise."

He couldn't make his voice work, because having his hair washed is one thing, that was his own fault for rushing through his bath, but this, _this_ – a fancy shave, with the fine-smelling soap, and her doing it for him – this is something for that guy, that _other_ guy, the rich guy with the big car and the house with the wide porch and the columns and the acres of hot water for her to swim in. It was what she deserved, not…

She stared back at him, eyes dark in the lamplight, and now he figured she thought he didn't want it, was pushing away something she held out to him. And damned if he couldn't fuck up_ everything_ without half trying. So he nodded, and turned around again, and let his back come against her knees. His fists made knots in the blanket. She went back to soaping up the brush, then there was the touch of her breasts again as she bent forward and began layering the foam on his cheeks.

"Scoot up," she said, and he obeyed, until she was kneeling behind him, pulling him back to her. One hand came up and touched his forehead, pressing his head back on her shoulder. Bits of her hair brushed his cheek and neck as she leaned close to get a better angle. Her thighs were bracketing his hips now, and her breasts pressed firm against his shoulder blades.

One hand, her strong hand, guided the blade up, slow, steady, barely rasping through the thick lather. The other hand slipped down to his jaw, pressed lightly on his pulse points as she pulled the skin taunt. Three, four smooth strokes of the blade, and then a pause, the water splashing as she rinsed the razor. Her skin peeled away from him and he nearly cried out from the loss of it. Then she was back against him again, bringing his head to her other shoulder, lathering that side. This close, the scent of the lather mixed with the smell of her – woman and sweat and something that was distinctly her- filling his head. He shifted his legs, the stiff jeans no longer as baggy and comfortable as they had been. She brushed a thumb over the mole at the corner of his mouth and he jerked, swallowing abruptly. The motion surprised her, bringing the column of his throat against the edge of the blade.

"Sorry," she whispered. _It's alright_, he thought, and then stopped, stopped _thinking_ as her fingers bent his head further back, let her lean in and touch the stinging cut with her lips. His skin shivered under her breath and a faint brush of her tongue as she wiped away the drop of blood.

He swallowed again, his head buzzing. "Saaaa, saaaa," she breathed, the blade scraping the underside of his jaw, and he could barely hear her, the blood was so loud in his head.

"Up a bit," she said, and he tilted his chin higher, breathing through it, all but shaking as she kept on slowly drawing the blade against his skin.

"There. Done." Her voice was a whisper against his ear, a low rasp like the tips of her fingers over his jaw and yes, he was _done_.

He turned in the circle of her arm, one hand warding away the glittering blade, the other grasping her waist as she leaned in to meet him. There was something desperate in her kisses now, as if the taste of his blood had brought to mind her mortality – or his.

He broke away from her mouth long enough to take the razor from her and set it carefully to the side. Then she was back in his arms, fingers tugging his hair, releasing him to fling aside the blanket, then grasping at him again, holding him to her as he lifted them both. Two steps, then a third, before she pulled him down into the blankets. He let go of her to work the zipper on his jeans, only to find her hands there before him. He let her. Kneeling over her, he returned his attention to the skin under her jaw and the pulse beating under his tongue before shifting his attention to her breast, finding her areola as she shoved the pants off his hips. Another kiss to her mouth – distracting him from the feel of her hands sliding over his flanks and digging into his back – and he finished kicking the jeans off as she pulled the blankets over them both.

Her skin was like the touch of fire. It scorched as he settled against her, her legs encircling him, drawing him close to her, her eyes dark and glimmering as she gasped, taking him in.

He fell into those eyes, all the way down.

* * *

><p>The thunk-thunk-thunk of someone splitting wood slowly brought her up and out of sleep. Under her ear, Daryl's heart beat slow, sleep-sodden. The workshop was cold, but not unbearably so – there is was still a gleam of embers from the potbelly stove. Pale dawn leaked around the edges of the entry door.<p>

Carol rolled closer to Daryl, felt him shift, swallow. His arm tightened around her, his hand sliding up to grasp the back of her head. She ran her hands over his back, feeling the scars under her finger tips like the proud grain on a tree limb, boasting of the storms it had weathered.

His breath caught. Wordlessly, she whispered against his skin, _saaa, saaa_, slid her hand up over his shoulder, hugged him tighter. He swallowed again and grasped her hand, bringing it up to entangle his fingers in hers. Slowly he turned and rolled up on one elbow, tenting the blankets with his shoulder and letting the cold air seep in.

"Hey," he said, gravel falling over rocks in the back of his throat. He fell silent, blinking down at her.

"Hey," she said, pulling one arm free to part his hair, tuck a lock behind his ear, then trace down the edge of his jaw. She drew her nail along the lines at the edge of his chin, touched the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes on hers as he turned his head to softly kiss her finger. "Good morning."

He followed the finger down, brushing against her lips before skittering sideways, kissing her eyes, her nose, her chin, and then finding her lips again. Her mouth opened under his.

"Morning," he said, after a time, his body firm against hers, his pulse beating steady under her fingertips. "Think I fell asleep on you last night."

She nodded, slowly, gravely. "You did," she said, and set her palm against the smooth skin of his cheek. "But," and the smile would not be held back, not when he was leaning over her, eyes sleepy and content and seeing nothing but her, "You can make it up to me."

_The End_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Daryl/ Carol, sexual situations, set post S508, either a really soft R or a really hard PG-13. Please advise if you are uncomfortable with the rating. Thanks to FS for beta. All errors remain my own, all constructive crit accepted with a glad heart, and thank you so much for reading this far.


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